The horror of our Love
by FanSlewFantasy
Summary: Inspired by the song by LUDO. NOT A SONGFIC! Yaoi themes and gore. Russia is in love with Canada and has a really messed up way of showing it. Not my usual fare, but you could try it? Or not... Kind of long. ONESHOT


The horror of our love. Reposted from old account. was oringinally a part of a collection of fics, but i decided it would be better published as a one-shot.

**Title:** the horror of our love

**Character/s: **Russia Canada

**Pairings: **onesided ruscan

**Ratings: **M+ for hard gore and yaoi.

**Genre: **romance, angst, horror

**Warnings: **Character death

**Disclaimers: **i don't own hatalia or make money from these writings. The plot, however, is mine. Unless it was subliminally planted there without my knowledge. Meh.

**Summarry:** Russia is hopelessly in love with Canada, and he has a plan as to how they can be together forever.

* * *

><p>Matthew raises his glass to his lips, a small smile turning seeming sparkles on the facets cut into the goblet from which he drinks. Fragile fingers twirl a lock of gold, he listens intently to the words spewing forth from ceaseless mouths, ignored, but paying close attention to everything they say.<p>

I stand and edge over, boots heavy and graceless, he flicks his eyes to me, sharp ears pricking. I pretend to ignore the tightening smile he sends my way, its wound and humourless, wary more than anything else, edged with acid unjust and sour in my mouth.

France laughs, the sound rakes the back of my neck with itchy fingers.

I sink further into my scarf, striding faster toward the boy who, when he sees what my purpose is, lowers his drink and bats his eyes at me from behind sparkly wire framed glasses.

"Can I help you?" a voice dripping with inherited dislike. his words were long, lazy and slick with a thick American influenced drawl. I swallowed, the inside of my gut oily and uncomfortable.

"I would like to speak with you, if you will."

"I can't right now." An elegant hand claws ever so slightly at the white table cloth, barely noticeably rippling the fabric and giving a glimpse through the mirror of cool he is presenting me. He is afraid of me, but he acts well, almost passing for nonchalant. He takes another sip of wine, a bead of red clings to his upper lip and he swipes at it with the very tip of his flowery pink tongue.

"Well then speak with me later, da? I won't take no for an answer."

"Are you sure you don't wish to speak with my brother?"

"No, I wish to speak to you."

"I see." The crinkle of the cloth in his hand is more obvious, the tension is clear though not betrayed in the least by his face or voice. "Can it wait until after the meeting? We can make an appointment."

"That would be ideal." A glance told me that America and England had not noticed Matthew's distraction from the discussion, they carry on speaking with the same glittery words they always did, exaggerating their point with gestures and exclamations that mean nothing, and flout the point of speech entirely. "Can I trust that you will be there?"

"Of course." Barely a whisper, the boy turned away from me and released the tablecloth. Crisp creases remained. I swallowed and studied his profile closely. Delicate, transparent lashes, a narrow, razorblade nose. The soft beauty he held was distant and impersonal, it spoke clearly.

_Not for you. Hahaha…_

We will see.

"Very well. Come to mine this evening for supper, I will have Estonia make something."

"Mmm." He looked away pointedly, a clear signal that this conversation was over.

I narrowed my eyes and clomped past him, preparing to leave. The sound of tinkling glass, a smooth snicker, France laughed again.

::::::::::

_There's a demon outside my window, scraping claws on the frosted glass and gouging screaming gashes onto the surface of my mind. _

_Snow sparkles in his messed up hair, his pale cheeks are pink and the large black glasses he wears obscure his face, hiding any emotion in those eyes. He hammers harder on my door and I am snapped from my thoughts, crashing back into my body and swaying a little where I stand, in the sterile, climate controlled foyer of my home._

"_Hello? Anyone home? Russia? Latvia? ANYONE?" _

_His voice is almost drowned out by the snowstorm outside, the grey that thrashes my house, rattling windows, beating walls, fighting and struggling to make its way inside._

"_I know you're there Ivan, I can see you! __Let me IN!"_

"_Da, da." I hurry to retrieve the keys, in a glass dish by the door. They clink and rattle, I manage to get them in the lock with shaking hands, but actually turning and unlocking the door is another matter. I need to calm down. This had to work… it had to._

_Swallowing my anxiety, I twist the key and listen for the fall of the tumblers that signal it is clear. _

_He is sliding the glass door aside and shoving his way in before I realise what is happening, the howl of the wind rises, snow blows in, wetting the spotless white tiles on the floor. When the door shuts tight once more, the volume of the storm drops, the sound of buzzing electric lamps and ragged breathing fills the space. I wipe beads of cold sweat off my face, and he shakes out his hair._

"_Greetings, Matvey."_

"_Hello, Ivan." He wipes his glasses with his fingertips, and sighs. "Can I perhaps hang up my coat?"_

"_Of course."_

_The sound of neat black ankle boots click on the floor, I wince. In the isolated white of my home, the black of his fur coat is obscene, and the sound and smell of his presence is… sickening. _

"_Can I just use this hook?" he is already removing it, exposing a slender body clad head to toe in clingy black. Neon reflects off the lenses of his glasses, the flawless pearl of his skin makes me shiver. I nod and he drops his coat onto the slightly lilted coat rack in the corner, comical in its shiny silver crookedness. Matthew Williams turns to me then, sliding his glasses off his nose and licking cottony lips. _

"_You called me here because why?"_

"_Mmm. I have a proposition for you."_

_He bats spidery black lashes at me and frowns._

"_You call me here in the middle of winter, in the freezing cold… to discuss a proposition?"_

"_Of course. Why else would I?"_

_He narrows his eyes dangerously, silver sharpness in his focus, a cruel, perfectly white tooth sinking into his bottom lip. _

"_I see…" _

_With that, the man clacks over, and places his fingers confidently beneath my chin. With those boots on, he is close to my height, his fingers icy and blue tipped, nails like talons scraping my skin. Violet eyes rape me, my chest expands within the loose white cloth of my tunic, and a breath of something slightly chemical burns my nose._

"_Are you going to offer me a drink then?" those fingers release my chin. My jaw tightens._

"_Da, come with me."_

_:::::::  
><em>

It is ideal.

No, in fact, it is _far_ from ideal.

But it will do.

My basement is cool and private, there are lights that flicker and concrete floors that are already stained. No-one comes down here, the stale breath of air that fills the space is old and sickly sweet with a rancid, evil smell I know far to well. No breeze, it is hot and stuffy. There are no decorative accents at all, besides the pictures that plaster the walls.

Just a plain white table and my chair. And a mirror, attached to the ceiling. A mirror that reflects death and love and life… a mirror whose surface could show a man his very soul.

Most mirrors do that, you know.

If you look hard enough.

But sometimes it helps when you are in a… special situation. A special state of mind.

I finish making preparations, spilling bleach over the surface of the table and scrubbing it in with a hand held brush. My knuckles are red, burnt by the harsh chemical, the smell makes me lightheaded. I don't particularly mind.

Humming a little tune, I work. The table is clean, everything is in order.

Thick leather straps dangling from the edge of the table knock against my legs as I lean across the surface. The buckles clank, I smile grimly and hum a little faster. A quick little tune, one I make up while I work.

Beneath the table are the instruments, locked up tight in a neat metal chest. I drag them out and set them on the table, thinking for a moment that I sorely need a tray or something. Like in a real hospital. The light bulb sputters, I don't notice so much, captivated by the tools I am looking at.

Delicate metal hooks, gleaming and sliver and clinking together with hygienic tings, a few knives and a small saw. I can see my face reflected in the largest knife, black handled and hooked at the end, I pick it up and weigh it in my hand. My heart leaps to hold the thing, a little thrill of adrenaline. It's as glittery and sharp as Matthew, this tool. It will look so fine pressed against pearly, flawless skin.

Tracks of pink will remain as I slide the flat side of the knife across an exposed belly, the cool blade drawing blood to capillaries below the surface. He will squirm, panting, begging, the expression of desperation painted on his features heart racing. His breath will be short and desperate, tears tracking down pink cheeks… he will still be able to see himself in the mirror too, an icy clear reflection showing him everything he had ignored.

The knife thunks dully as I lay in on the table. I begin adding lyrics to my tune. Small ones, nonsensical

_Look my little Opshop doll_

_See that lonely moon?_

_When winter comes it's frozen _

_And you'll be frozen too…_

Footsteps echo overhead. Estonia is home, but he won't be for long. He has a list of things to do, and as I listen closely, still singing, I hear the front door slam.

_Welcome to the looking glass_

_You can stay if you don't tell_

_In summer time its heaven_

_and in winter time its hell…_

Silence.

The face of Canada, looks at me from the murky corners of the basement, as well as the flat planes of walls. His smile tacked over the smile of other lovers, long gone, to whom I had already revealed the secret of bloody love.

_Tell me that you love me_

_With that little frozen heart_

_My little dolly trust my hands_

_And I'll take you apart_

Love, love bloody love…

If I cant win it off him

I will cut it from his chest.

::::::

"_Mind if I smoke?" Matthew raises the uneven little hand roll cigarette to his lips and draws a small silver lighter from his boot. I nod stiffly, setting the sleek silver tray on the coffee table and sitting beside him on the firm, cube-esque sofa. _

_The dull grey smoke dragoning and twisting from the end of his cigarette smells sweet, he casts his lighter down with a clatter and exhales a fine cloud. I watch, lips pressed together in silence, as he takes another deep suck._

"_What? Would you like some?" he offers me the pot and I refuse, favouring the glass of vodka I had set on the coffee table._

_It's just as silent in here as in the foyer._

_The steady ticking of my grandfather clock fills the empty white space, over the rustle of my bare feet on the thick spotless carpet. I still my anxious leg shifting, in case he could hear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He is intimately entranced by his cigarette, letting his eyes fall half cast reverently as he exhales, gazing off into thought when he draws another deep suck. I sip my vodka and clear my throat._

"_Would you like something to eat?" I gesture to the tray of sugar biscuits I had brought for him. He shakes his head and sighs, stubbing his smoke on the edge of my black lacquered table._

"_I will take a drink though. You seem to have forgotten to bring me one."_

"_Hmm. So I have." I set my glass down on the table and stand. "Vodka or water."_

"_Orange juice please. If you have it."_

"_with ice?"_

"_of course."_

_I flick the radio on as I walk past, the shiny ebony machine begin playing Tchaikovsky softly, barely audible but loud enough to take the sharpness from the silence. The kitchen is open, the cabinets glass, I retrieve a tumbler and a jug of juice from the fridge, running my finger over the sugared rim before pouring and dropping a few icecubes from the chrome wine cooler on the counter in. I had used the cooler for my vodka bottle, and when he was gone, when my business was seen to, I will place it back in the freezer. But I have more important things to do now._

_I carry the glass carefully back to where he rests._

_My heart speeds up and I swallow dryly, the lounge room air is now thick with smoke and oddly glimmery, he is bumming another joint while singing something softly under his breath. The words are indistinguishable, timed to the low violin from the Radio, but also, familiar._

"_Here." I pass him the glass and he smiles, a lopsided little smile that doesn't reach his starry, to bright eyes. Dilated pupils, flickering focus, and a firm, unpleasant little furrow between his brows._

"_Thank you."_

"_You're welcome." I pick up my glass of vodka and swallow a mouthful. The liquid burns, but also has a strange malty taste to it I don't recognise. Maybe it is the smoke, has changed my sense of taste. It is certainly making me feel light headed. _

_I sit back down and try to focus. Upstairs, my surgery waits. White sheets on a steel bed, harsh lights and all the tools anyone would need. All that is missing was the specimen._

"_Hm. Matthew, I would like to discuss my proposition n-" I drop my words when I notice the spoon on the table. Little, silver, unfamiliar. It hadn't been there before, and it is wet._

"_m… Matthew?"_

"_hm?" he leans back into the arm of the sofa and bats long lashes my way. _

"_What's that?" I point to the spoon; beside my glass of vodka it looks worse than dangerous. It looks positively toxic._

"_That's a spoon."_

_I swallow, feeling sick to the bottom of my stomach. A strange fog begins edging its way over my consciousness._

"_Did you put it there?" I blink, my vision is swimming. The feeling of my heart struggling, my breath to shallow. The sound of Tchaikovsky is suddenly thunderous._

"_no." he smiles wider, tongue tracing the lip of his glass. _

_The ice cubes clink._

_he drinks._

_His eyes glowing with malicious light, the scene edging with black, I slump back in my seat and see nothing._

_::::  
><em>

"Come in." I open the door for him and he steps inside, sneakers trailing a little mud on my carpet.

"Can I take my coat off?"

"Da, of course." I take the baggy black windbreaker and place it on a hook. He combs his fingers through his hair and crosses his arms.

The young man stands with all the rigid dignity of a Frenchman, as well as the snobby coolness of an Englishman. His eyes are untrusting, suspicious like an American, yet I have seen him smile and blush before, like a maiden. Shy and quiet usually, he has erected a great façade today, and if I hadn't been watching him for so long, I would never have been able to notice the trembling lip, or hear the breathless lilt in his soft, heavily accented voice.

Away from the others, the gap between what he is showing me and what he is is even more noticeable.

"Drink?" I offer, walking him through to the kitchen.

"No thanks."

"Ah, I insist." I open the fridge and withdraw the jug of orange juice I had prepared before-hand. "Take a seat at the breakfast bar. I will be with you in a moment."

"Okay. Thanks."

I turn my back to him as I pour the beverage, needing to make sure the pill I had put in there has actually dissolved. It was fast acting, two minutes maybe? I try to still my shaking hand to no avail.

"oh _merde_!"

I look up when I heard his swear, the sound of a stool scraping on the hardwood floor and a slosh.

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing! I just accidentally… don't worry!" his face, pink and flustered, his words are hurried and he stumbles, Trying unsuccessfully to clean the spill from the glass of vodka I had poured myself earlier and left on the bench. I sigh and, after a final check, brought his glass of drink over for him.

"Here, its okay." I pass him a serviette from the dispenser by the sink. "Don't mop it with your sleeve. Use this." I shift my now half full glass of vodka and reach over to see the damage.

"I'm sorry Ivan I swear it was an accident. I tripped and knocked your vodka because I had to grab the counter and-"

"It's okay!" I straighten up and reach for the last of the vodka in the glass, drinking it all in one go without a second thought. "Just relax, look, you got vodka on your shirt." I point to the fine white cloth shirt he wore, which is now damp and reeking of alcohol.

I reach for his chin and raised anxious eyes to mine.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know." he smiles weakly, resettling himself in the seat. "You couldn't hurt me even if you wanted to."

I frown and released his chin.

"What do you mean?"

His eyes flick nervously to the glass I had just emptied.

Without warning, paralysis seizes my breast and limbs.

"Oh? Ivan, are you okay?" his voice is still soft, but flat now, and unreadable. I drop, unable to hold myself up, and struggle to form words. His expression is one of faint concern, seeing it makes my heart pound unlike anything I've ever seen before.

"Oh my." I hear the sound of him standing again, feel the side of a dirty sneaker press to my cheek and raise my chin. "Ivan, what's the matter?"

The world flickers, the earth slows, and everything is black.

:::::

_I squirm, the binds on my chest are constrictive and I struggle to breathe._

_From far away, I hear a soft voice, singing. The sweet smell of marijuana floods my brain with strange, blurry shapes and sounds. The taste of blood is in my mouth._

_Everything is numb._

'Look my little кукла

See that lonely moon

When winter comes it's frozen

And soon you will be too

_I try to make a sound, but can't. Rag crammed into my mouth, it is hard to breathe and even harder to swallow. I become acutely aware of a terrible, splitting agony in my jaw. Burning, pulsing, fluctuating. _

_My teeth have been torn out, and that coarse rag pressed against the blood pits pissing copper onto my numb tongue. _

_I begin to choke, eyes snapping open, and the first thing I see is him, bathed in fluorescent white light. _

"_Well, hello my little doll. How are you feeling?" his teeth are sharp and flawless, his lips blood red and pulled into a cruel smile. Even his eyes, seeming like the devils own, force aching throbbing agony on my body. _

_And indistinct noise, I inhale some blood and my chest spasms. He raises his eyebrows, plucking the wad of fabric from my mouth._

"_What's that? Don't drown on me now, we haven't finished with this yet…" his face disappears from my line of sight, and I manage to cry out when my eyes refocus on the roof above._

_Myself, reflected in a great silver mirror. Strapped down on a metal table in the middle of a spotless white surgery room, black leather straps prevent me from moving my head or any of my limbs. I wear nothing but my tunic, loose and transparent with sweat. It clings to me, the muscles on my chest, and my arms. Every detail is exaggerated by the saturated cloth. My face is as pale as death, my mouth sticky with crimson blood. There is blood all down my neck, for that matter, a waterfall of blood down my chin, throat, staining the neck of my top. When I open my mouth to scream, the panic in my eyes escalates, the gaping bloody mess that was my mouth welcomes me with an ironic grin. He looks up at the mirror, I see his face turn upward, and smiles. _

"_Hmm? Oh yes, those. I took them out you see. They will make nice jewellery, don't you think" without taking his eyes of the mirror, he picks something out of a dish on the tray beside him and holds it in front of my face. Not only can I see the thing he is showing me, I can see him offer it too. A tooth, torn out by the root and covered in drying red. It is ugly, painful to behold. The burning in my mouth doubles, and I feel sick. Really, violently sick. My stomach heaves, but suddenly noticing what's going on he drops the tooth and slams his hands down below my ribs. _

_I splutter instead, consciously aware of my own tooth on the table beside my neck. The pain from his slam makes tears well in my bloodshot, terrified eyes. He sighs, and I watch from above as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand._

"_Dear me, Ivan, we cant be having that now, Da?" he walks around, so he is behind my head, and combs those fingers through my sweaty, pale blonde hair. I am vaguely aware, for the first time in my life, of how beautiful it is. Silky and clean and radiant. _

"_You have pretty hair." Beaming, he meets my eyes in the mirror. "Wouldn't you agree?"_

_I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to scream when he jerks it roughly. _

"_Oh well… off it comes." _

_My eyes fly open again when I feel a knife rip through the already fairly short locks. It pulls, and by the end of it all he has is a handful of ends. His tongue clicks, the handful of hair is cast aside, and the quick clack of boots carries him back to the tray at my side. I notice then, for the first time, there are instruments on it besides the bowl of teeth. Knives, screws… a few hooks and clamps. Even a large needle._

_Tears flood down my cheeks anew. His hand hovers for a moment, undecided. My heart… oh god my heart. I will die soon, a little more of this and I will have a heart attack._

"_Hmm. You're a bit messy, aren't you? Let me clean you up." _

_I yell at him, reckless and horrified, when he dips his hand beneath the table and withdraws a scarf with which to mop the blood off my face. Splatters of gore, flung on the spill of misspoken Russian profanities, splatter his cheeks and the lenses of his glasses. He doesn't seem to mind._

"_That's better now." He dumps the scarf carelessly in the tooth dish and gropes blindly for a tool. Any tool._

_My heart is going to burst, I know it. _

_So it is almost a relief when his fingers, tender with venom, lift my shirt to my throat and trace the cleave of my breastbone in an unzipping motion. His voice, still soft, inquires, "That heart of yours. How do I remove it?"_

_Panting, struggling against my binds, I try to murmur something, but it was no good. My English has failed me, Russian was the scream of thought in my mind and even if he could understand, I have no teeth to help form the words._

Just take it out!

_He smiles, a horrid little grin, and plunges his hand directly inside my chest. It passes through no problem, the skin giving way, the ribs cracking. The feeling of pressure when he seizes my panicking organ dies down as he extracts it slowly. Stillness overtakes me, and despite the blood flooding my lungs, I can breathe. _

_The cavity in my chest is familiar to me. Gaping, pink around the edges, I find the sight calming, in truth. There is no blood, and no pain, and if he so chose to replace it I know that wound will heal. Yet the way he touches my pumping heart, the red smeared reverently over his white knuckles, I understand he has no intention of replacing it. Ever._

"_What an odd thing." Into the tooth bowl with it, along with my scarf. Bloody hands paint the intact half of my chest calmly, toying with my right nipple. "What an odd and beautiful body you have."_

_And before I know what's happening, a scalpel has sliced my nipple clean off._

"_don't squirm!" he giggles, forcing me down as I thrash and shout and positively bellow for mercy. The scalpel returns, digging in around the area it had been. A burning hole, like a bullet wound. Unspeakable pain._

"_Don't squirm, my little_ кукла, _the more you squirm, the worse it will be!"_

_I gape at my reflection, a new flood of blood pouring out of my mouth, eyes swimming. I am beginning to feel giddy, watching this whole thing as if from above, and now the pain emanating from my nipple is growing stronger. _

_What am I watching? What am I beholding, this dissection of my body arrows through me on a level beyond physicality. _

_I don't recognise the man in that mirror, I never knew him. He looks beautiful in his agony._

_The scalpel is still erect in my flesh, he twiddles it around lazily, gazing up at my reflection with almost lustful eyes. Blood is beginning to seep off the table now, and onto the floor._

"_That's what you get…" he pressed the scalpel further in and I arch, unable to tear my eyes away. Blood is fountianing from the wound, it's everywhere. "For playing that game, yes? The way you touch them, you pull them… do you want me to lick them Ivan? You still want my tongue to play with THAT?" he tears the scalpel out and lowers his head, jamming his tongue roughly onto the gruesome place that, yes._

_I had often touched in thought of him._

_I scream anew, and he stands up, licking his lips. _

"_Hey, Ivan, shut up or I will stuff your mouth again." a little smile, he leans forward and pecks my lips. The action makes me want to vomit anew. Those lips are soft, and petal like. _

"_Right!" he resumes humming, reaching for a new tool. I can't see his face, the consideration he gave each instrument as his hand hovered over it. He settles for a large blade with a hook on the end, and a clamp._

_My injured nipple is burning fiercely, head swimmingly._

"_So, Ivan. Let's make some of your other dreams come true shall we?" he places the hook of the blade to my gut._

"_How would it feel?" those boots again, clacking, clicking, echoing in the silence as he rounds the bed to the other side. "to have me kiss this tummy, hmm? To have me lick it, all the way up and down? Have you ever wondered about that? Answer honestly."_

_Drawing a shaking breath, still distracted by the sting in my chest and the sweat pouring down my face, I nod._

_He looks up at me in the mirror and blushes. The man blushes, sweet and pretty and heartbreakingly beautiful. I wince as the pressure on the hook of that knife increases._

"_Oh my… I can't believe you really thought I was that kind of boy." He bites his lip and looks away. "my, my, my."  
>I can't even scream when he slits my stomach.<em>

_I can't watch, the vision above me is to much, but I can _feel_, the sensation of a blade peeling back skin, digging inside. The leather straps holding me down creak. His maniac laugh, tittery and school girl, fills my ears. My heart isn't beating but my body pulses. _

_I am dying… dying._

_Humming a tune, that same tune, he inserts his fingers into the gash and pulls. I opened my mouth and more blood spilled everywhere. All over my face, all over the top half of my body. The feel of steal clamps holding me open, I crack my eyes apart and disbelief paralyzes me. Because I don't know the man I am looking at at all. This mess on the table is no nation, he is barely a human. And I can see inside him. _

_His guts, spilling out, being caressed by the fingers of a man who smiled a deadly smile, eyes half cast, hair glowing like a halo. A halo…_

'Welcome to the looking glass

You can stay if you don't tell

In summer time its heaven

And in winter time its hell…'

_He sings aloud as he set the tools down and gets on the table. His bloody hands run up my thighs, toward my crotch._

"_How about here Ivan?" he asks, touching me, fingers stroking me in the way I had stroked myself to his picture. Not lying on this table, but on one very similar. "Ever touched here?"_

_In desperation, a last effort salvaged together by instinct, intellect and every single scrap of energy I have, I shake my head furiously. He grins widely, reaching for a bigger knife._

"_Oh, Ivan… you dirty liar."_

_Death would be a blessing._

"_Ah, Ivan, you perverted fool."_

_:::::  
><em>

When I wake I wake to him, his face inches from mine.

"… Hello?"

"Hello." A shy little smile, he kisses my cheek and the blush on the bridge of his nose deepened. "How are you feeling?"

"… okay I think."

I furrow my brow, trying to remember. He clicks his tongue and combs his fingers through my hair.

"I was worried about you, silly."

"Why? What happened?"

"You fainted. You were pouring me a drink and you fainted." He laughed softly and blushed. "Gosh, I dint know what to do with you. How do you feel?"

Besides the frantic hammering of my heart, I feel fine. A little tired, a bit dizzy and confused. Why had I fainted? And why was he…

"Matthew."

"Call me Matvey."

"Why are you on top of me?"

He frowns for a moment, pretty face taking on an expression of puzzlement. In truth, the feeling of having him so close delights me in a way I have never experienced. The press of his chest on mine, his leg between my own. I hesitantly raise my hands to his waist, to see if he would let me. he does.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you lying on top of-" I am cut off by his lips on mine.

Honey, apples, maple syrup. They taste clean and sweet and better than anything I have ever imagined. My heart swells, I part my lips in a request to deepen the kiss and he obliges.

When he pulls away, he is shaking. A hand brushes the side of my face as he goes to adjust his glasses, before beginning to caress my hair.

"Does it matter?" he kisses my nose and my eyes flutter shut. What on earth am I feeling? A light, alien sensation, it bubbles in my stomach and in my chest. A _happy_ feeling. Happy… happy…

Without thinking, I spit it out.

"Matvey I'm in love with you."

He nuzzles my neck; I felt the breath of his giggle on my skin.

"Silly Ivan, I know. You said so before."

"I said so before?"

"mhmm." He nods, the pert curl in the front of his head bobs eagerly. "When you were unconscious. Just over and over, my name."

I flush. Butterflies are bursting into existence in my gut. I want to sing. To run. His breath syncs with mine, his lips caress my cheek.

"I'm sorry I never said so sooner."

"It's okay… id rather have found out this way."

I close my eyes in bliss, feeling renewed and reveling in the sensation of his lips kissing tension and bitterness off the line of my jaw. With every soft murmur, every little peck, my heart leaps.

His hands venture down my sides, rubbing my waist, running over my hips.

Suddenly, I feel human. Suddenly, I start to cry.

Cleansing tears seep between the lids of my closed eyes. Shaking, I kiss him back, stroking his limbs and his hair and everything I can reach. Toughing, playing. His mouth is heavenly, I map it out, memorising.

And I was changing. I could feel something shift inside me, something new and clean and indescribably good stirring and pressing and filling. His breath on the shell of my ear, whispered words.

"Keep your eyes closed, my love, I have something I want to show you."

I nod, moaning a little at the feel of his chest pulling away from mine. He shimmies down my legs, the transferal of his weight from my hips to upper thighs, his fingers undo the buttons of my shirt and I gasp.

"M-matvey what are you doing?"

"Don't you want this?" his hands hesitated, I drew a shaking breath.

"Only if you do."

"I do." He caresses my stomach, and fiddles with the button of my fly. "I really do Ivan."

I moan when his hand slides down the front of my jeans and he stroked me lightly. His weight shifts, he dismounts but that hand remains, playing with me, caressing me, rubbing the head of my erection with all the tenderness I had dreamed of.

He hums as he teases me, a familiar little tune. I barely pay attention to it or the sound of fabric, the sound of some adjustments being made. I'm to busy giving in to his touch. His hand. The taste of him lingering on his lips.

He's touching me. His hand is pleasuring me…

"Matvey… " I smile, arching into his hand and gasping. "I can die happy now." The words are lifted by a strange laugh from my very core. He matches that laugh with a giggle, removing his hand and tracing my belly. An arm slides across me and withdraws, pulling something with it.

"Well, isn't that lucky."

My eyes snap open when I felt something tighten across my chest.

A strap.

Thick black and leather, horribly, obscenely familiar. Before I can react, the second one across the thighs is tightened, below my erection, and then, one by one, the others too. On my ankles. My wrists.

The peace that settled over my heart shatters, and the boy I had longed to call My Love looked up into the reflection above and smiled his fake smile.

"I told you to keep your eyes closed, silly." He shakes his head. "What a shame."

From above, my little surgery is less remarkable. Dark, dingy, concrete floors stained with old blood, walls tacked with thousands of photos of Matthew Williams, every one painstakingly pinned over the face of the forgotten victims of before. I've never seen myself look like this, face flushed, eyes still aglow with the dying ember of joy. Shock and hurt and betrayal and huge terrifying emotions I've never known I was capable of welled from my eyes in the form of tears. I can't even speak. My heart…

My poor heart.

He flits around, fingering the tools and selecting a small hook from the row on the edge of the table.

"So, Ivan, look in the mirror," He pointed upward, my eyes were already there, trained on the reflection of the small tool he was pressing to my stomach. "Have you ever heard the saying that if you look hard enough in a mirror, you can see right into your soul? Well, I'm curious. What do you see?"

But I can say nothing.

I can't even scream as he cuts my stomach slowly. The blade only splits the skin, it barely stings. At least, physically.

I give up, I give up.

"I see…" my voice shakes a little, and the edges of my vision blur to smoke. But somewhere, deep inside, I am surprised by the calm I hold. "myself."

"Yourself?" he reaches for another tool, a little hook, and I don't even bat an eyelid as he begins peeling back the skin above my hip. My erection is still up. His hands are very gentle.

"Yes."

Before me, the reflection is fluctuating. Fog and sweet scented smoke fill my vision. I squint, but indistinct shapes begin to overtake what I am actually seeing. White, just white. I am only dully aware of a sting as he cut me again, a little higher up.

A foyer. A white, modernistic foyer. It is raining outside, and I stand alone in the foyer dressed in a loose tunic and white jeans. I'm barefoot, wearing my scarf. A crash, a bang, the howl of the wind grows louder.

There's a demon outside my window, scraping claws on the frosted glass and gouging screaming gashes onto the surface of my mind.

Snow sparkles in his messed up hair, his pale cheeks are pink and the large black glasses he wears obscure his face, hiding any emotion in those eyes. he hammers harder on my door and I am snapped from my thoughts, crashing back into my body and swaying a little where I stand in the sterile, climate controlled foyer of my home.

Far away, quiet but echoing over distance and through into the realm of the mirror above, I hear singing. Matthews voice, pleasant and tuneful

_You tell me that you love me_

_With that litte frozen heart_

_My little_ кукла_ I don't care_

_But I'll take you apart._

* * *

><p>AN: the setting for this story was heavily inspired by Stanley kubricks 'a clockwork orange'. I considered writing it in the style of Anthony Hopkins too, but decided not to in the end. Also, if anyones seen the music video for lady gaga's paparazzi, I was going for a bit of that too… if anyone want to drop me a review and let me know how well I did with that? I will love you forever.

Also, sorry about the crappy editing. I started writing it in past tense, but then I was all like 'hey, nah…' so I went through and changed the whole tense. So if I missed some words, im sorry. I will edit properly eventually, no fear.

Also, FYI, I actually LOVE the pairing ruscan. They are my OTP, actually, and in truth I much prefer complete fluff for them. I am addicted to soft and cuddly squishy mushy Russia loves Canada Canada loves Russia and they all live happily after stories. I just tokenly wrote this because I have never tried to write a story with this kind of emotion before, and wanted to try it out.

Hmm.

Sorry.


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